


Two Princes

by Signe (oxoniensis)



Category: Captive Prince - S. U. Pacat
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/pseuds/Signe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their rendezvous was at noon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Destina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/gifts).



> For the delicious prompt: _I'm going to be honest with you, Yuletide writer: what I want here is some lovely and emotional Damen/Laurent porn. Porn, porn, porn. Preferably set at some future point, after their first night together in Book 2._
> 
> So there's lot of porn, but you have to read the plot to get there (and as an aside, there's canon-level violence/battle scenes). It follows on directly from book 2, so there are huge spoilers for both books.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful beta, [](http://girl_wonder.livejournal.com/profile)[**girl_wonder**](http://girl_wonder.livejournal.com/) \- I couldn't have written this without you.

"Commander... Your Highness," an Akielon messenger stuttered awkwardly. He was not the first. 

"Yes, soldier?"

"We have intercepted another of the Regent's scouts. None have gotten through to Fortaine so far."

"Good, keep it so," said Damen in dismissal. The messenger edged backwards a few steps, his hand hesitating halfway to a salute, before making a sharp turn and heading away.

It still felt vaguely surreal, walking the ramparts of a Veresian fort, Akielon men—his men, for all that they wore the colours of Nikandros—busy in the courtyard. The preparations for war were familiar: the distant clang of hot metal in the smithies, the scrape of whetstones as men checked their weapons for flaws and damage, the scurrying of laundry women. 

Damen had visited Paschal earlier to ensure that the doctor had all the assistance he needed. There were piles of clean linens ready for those he could help, and drugs for those he couldn't. Damen found him testing a small group of men, soldiers who would double-up as surgeons on the field. As one stuttered out a patently wrong answer to Paschal's question, Damen could only hope he wouldn't come to need their untrained assistance. The stables were packed, every building within Ravenel was full and bustling with activity. Full of murmurs too, conversations that petered out whenever he approached.

It was to be expected.

Damen had but a few moments of solitude before another interruption to his thoughts. This time it was Guymar.

There was a pause before Guymar spoke, as though the words he wished to speak and those he should speak were battling for ascendancy. Damen had time to place a bet with himself as to which option would win.

"Commander," said Guymar eventually. None of the Veresians had addressed him as anything else. "There are fights breaking out among the men. Words have been said—"

Damen won the bet. Guymar was no coward. "About me," said Damen.

"Yes." Guymar's eyes flickered down, just briefly, but it was obvious that his glance was to Damen's arm. The wrist cuff was covered by sleeves now, but all would have seen it the previous day when he was in his riding leathers, arms bare. It was strange: when he wore both collar and cuffs, he could almost forget them, yet now he had just the one cuff, it weighed heavier on him than all three combined. And yet he didn't for one second regret his choice. No matter how it looked to men like Guymar. Or to Nikandros.

"That is to be expected," said Damen. "Ensure that they are too busy to fight. If their work is done, engage them in drills."

It was a dismissal, but Guymar didn't take it. Damen waited. He would allow Guymar to speak if he wished, but he would not invite it. 

"We ... that is, none of us ... we did not expect our reinforcements to be Akielon." Guymar had been looking up at Damen, but now his eyes dropped and he turned to look across the courtyard. He spoke quietly. "It is hard to imagine Vaskian soldiers and Akielon soldiers fighting side by side. Our peoples have a long history—"

"I have been fighting by the side of your Prince," said Damen. A simple statement for such a byzantine circumstance.

Guymar nodded slowly, as though he couldn't help but acknowledge the truth of it. Damen thought he wanted reassurance, a promise even, but Damen had made promises, both public and private, and all he had left to offer was hope, not certainties. He could not promise all would go well tomorrow, that former—and possibly future—enemies would fight side by side and not turn on each other. He could only lead them all together and hope they would follow.

"May I speak freely?" asked Guymar, looking back up at Damen.

Some leaders might refuse, but Damen preferred to know what was in the minds of the men in his command, especially the men who would have the most influence on the rank and file soldiers. He wanted to know the state of their hearts. Understanding Guymar might be the key to understanding the army Damen would lead tomorrow.

"The men wonder how long Laurent ... the Prince," Guymar corrected himself quickly, "how long the Prince has been in bed with Akielos? And ... how much else of what the Regent has ... has implied about him is true?" 

Guymar's speech shuddered to a halt, his eyes opening in alarm, and Damen realized that he had instinctively reached for his sword, his hand on the hilt before he was aware of his own action. 

"The Regent's words are like a cup of fine wine with a few small drops of poison. All you can taste is the wine, but the poison will still kill you," said Damen, dropping his hand back to his side, consciously forcing himself to soften his stance. He unclenched his fingers one at a time.

Guymar nodded again. For all that the Regent was good at fooling people, perhaps something of his perfidious nature had slithered out into public view. No man, however clever, could hide his true character all the time. The rumours he'd had spread about the Prince were many, but no doubt there were rumours about the Regent too, less enticing perhaps by virtue of being truth rather than cleverly constructed lies, but still enough to make men wonder.

For now, there was only one question to ask. 

"Will you fight for your Prince tomorrow?"

There was no hesitation in Guymar's response. Had there been, Damen would have had him removed from his post immediately. "Yes, I will fight for him."

"Put an end to the infighting. Tomorrow is the time to fight. Have them ready for an early departure," said Damen, and this time Guymar accepted the dismissal as such.

Damen turned back to lean against the wall, looking out over the surrounding lands.

He would not hear any news of Laurent until their noon rendezvous tomorrow, whether he'd met with success or failure. There was little point dwelling on Laurent's mission, nothing Damen could do now. They had planned it to the smallest detail, covered any eventualities the two of them could imagine, and yet Damen still suspected that Laurent had further plans, whether long-laid for such an eventuality or crafted from need, he couldn't say. But all Damen could do was leave it in Laurent's hands and concentrate on his own part. 

Leading a patchwork army, men who'd fought each other in the past. More than half of them had believed him dead. The remainder... some believed him little more than a devious pet who'd wormed his way into the Prince's confidence; some thought him a worthy commander; and all now knew him as a prince-killer. He would have to prove himself yet again.

It was a good thing he didn't shy away from a challenge. If the two of them could win tomorrow, any impossibility could become possible for them. One day...

The sun was setting, a wide flush as red as the tide of Akielon cloaks that had flooded into the fort just this morning. Tomorrow would be a good day to ride into battle. 

  


His room felt too large, empty without the presence of Laurent. It took him eleven paces to cross from one side to the other, his boots loud on the tiled floor, echoing. There were faint groves worn in the grey tiles. Perhaps anxious commanders before him had paced this room, questioning their decisions, debating the right moves. None would have faced what he awaited tomorrow. He doubted any had ridden out knowing that winning the battle might mean losing something—someone—far more important. Someone he'd come to care for more than he could ever have imagined.

Tomorrow he would stand in front of Laurent as Damianos. It would be public, with no chance to speak first or privately or soften the blow in any way. Laurent would be armed, blood still on his blade, the heat of battle still in him. And he would face Damianos, prince-killer. The man who left him brotherless and fatherless. The man responsible, ultimately, for the Regent being in a position to take power. 

The man Laurent hated more than any other.

There were riding clothes and armour laid out on a chest. Leathers and fabric in the familiar Akielon style plus battle armour, sent over earlier by a messenger from Nikandros. Damen picked up the breastplate—it was good, strong but light—and ran his fingers over the raised pattern on the vambraces. Nikandros' messenger had apologised that there was nothing in Damen's colours, but even in the colours of Delpha, they were more familiar to him than the fine fabrics and interminable laces of Vere. 

Beside them were the armour and garments Laurent had provided. They were similar in many ways, both practical designs, fine quality. 

Damen left the decision to the morning.

For now, there were more pressing issues to attend to. For all that he had pored over maps of the border regions with Laurent, he needed to do so again. Nothing could be left to chance, not with the stakes they were playing with. Not one kingdom, but two, might be decided by the outcome of tomorrow's battle.

Strange to think now of the trust he was placing in a man he had despised only months ago. A foppish prince, he'd thought, unfit for battle. And tomorrow he would ride into a battle that he would likely only survive if that foppish prince had the skills that Damen now saw in him. If Laurent had failed to besiege Fortaine today, the Regent would not only have his own army tomorrow, he would have Guion's men too, and there would be no noon rendezvous.

  


The day quickly grew hot as soon as the sun rose. Damen had grown up with this heat, worse, sweating under training armour, hair plastered to his scalp.

Then, when he was a young prince, he'd worn Akielon armour. This morning, though, he hadn't hesitated when he ordered his servants to dress him in Veresian attire. They were well trained—not a single one had reacted in any visible or audible manner.

Unlike Jord.

"I thought you'd be dressed as an Akielon." Jord spat out the words.

"This is comfortable," said Damen. He reached out and took Jord's arm. Firm, but not so tight that Jord could not release himself if he chose. He didn't; he stood still and waited. "I am well aware of your feelings towards me. They are, however, irrelevant. Your loyalty to your Prince is the only important thing today. So I want you by my side."

"You want me in the battle?"

"Yes."

"He'll find out the truth today. And he will hate you for it," said Jord, emphatically. His mouth twisted up in satisfaction at that prospect.

Damen knew this. Dreaded it. Cursed himself for not speaking up when he had the chance, when he could have somehow dulled the pain of the revelation. But he couldn't let it distract him. "Fight by my side," he repeated.

Jord wavered. His desire to fight was strong.

"I thought you would fight at Nikandros' side. Or draft one of his men."

"I would rather have you. I want the best warrior at the front with me." It was the simple truth. In the absence of Laurent, there was no one he'd rather have at his side than Jord, no matter the words that had been said between them, and the promise unavoidably broken.

There was a trace of pleasure and pride in Jord's eyes, but it was gone in an instant. "As you wish, Commander," Jord said, and followed him to the centre of the courtyard.

Damen mounted the dais slowly. He reached the top step, the patchwork army of Akielon and Veresian soldiers ranked before him, Nikandros, Jord and a few others behind him. The men silenced as he looked over them, not even the scuffle of a sandal or clank of armour breaking the hush. 

He looked at the men, and as he let his gaze wander over individual faces, he remembered the Akielon scout he had killed. The scout would have been friend to some of the men in front of him, would have fought beside them. They would never know what happened to him, and Damen could never tell them. He wished it was the last Akielon life he would have to take, but heading south .... Taking back his kingdom. There would be more.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. 

Grand speeches had never been his forte. He imagined Laurent would take more pleasure in this moment than he was. But it was important. He had to inspire and he had to unite, and simply riding at their head would not be enough.

He began in the Veresian language. "You see the gold band I wear on my arm." He raised his arm high. "It is no longer a sign of slavery, but a promise. A promise to your land, to all of you. To your Prince. I stand before you now as a servant of two lands, a man who wants nothing more than to bring peace to both. I ride for your Prince, the rightful heir of Vere. I fight for him. Today we fight the serpent who has stolen the crown and poisons the soldiers of Vere by making them fight against the man who should rule them. I am a servant to the just cause of your Prince, and all the good men who fight for him."

He continued in Akielon, his first words in that language causing a murmur across the ranks, quickly muted with little more than a steady look. He thought of what his father might have said now, the way he used to inspire his men. The battle scars he bore, and the pride he had in them. 

"I am Damianos, your Prince." A loud cheer arose, and he waited for it to die down before continuing. "I bear scars," he said, thumping his shoulder with his fist, "scars of a warrior, scars I carry with honour. Today we ride to scar the enemy, to bring pain to those who wrong us, to rain down retribution on those who deserve it. To destroy the evil that has crept across two lands, taking what is not theirs. We will destroy that evil. We will have peace. We are warriors, yes, but we are men too, fathers and sons and husbands, and we fight to bring peace to our families. And when we have done that, when we stand on our soil knowing they are safe from harm, we will proudly show the scars we gained today, and say we stood at Charcy."

He repeated his last words in both languages, raising his voice to carry to the furthest man. "Ride hard today. Fight as brothers. Fight as one. As one," he repeated, and the refrain was picked up by the men next to him, and then by others, until Ravenel was echoing with the cry: _As one_.

Damen gave the signal to move out even as the cry still resounded around the fort. There was no time to waste. The Regent would not be late, and neither would Damen. As for Laurent, Damen could only hope he would not be late either.

  


The scouts—both Akielon and Veresian—returned within the hour, the flanks of their horses heaving, sweat pouring down the men's faces with the heat. Each reported in his own language as they briefly rode one on each side of Damen, but both reports were essentially the same. The two armies were a match in size. 

On a level playing field, skill would dominate eventually. Skill of the leaders and the training and experience of the men. They were not on a level playing field. The Regent's army had reached Charcy first, and had, as expected, taken the higher ground. They would have the dual advantages of a better view of the battle field, and the impetus to be gained from charging downhill.

The Regent would be confident. 

Over confident. Damen was relying on it. On an enemy who would see exactly what he would expect, who would believe he was about to call checkmate. Who would have the upper ground and be looking forward, not behind him.

Damen kept the pace steady, fast enough to reach Charcy before the sun reached its zenith, but not so fast that the horses or the men on foot would be exhausted. The terrain was rolling, bare dry grassland, easy marching for an army, though enough stones lay hidden in the grass to necessitate a careful eye to avoid stumbling. His horse was well-trained and sure-footed, but Damen still checked for hidden dangers. Hubris had been the downfall of greater men than him.

  


The Regent's herald rode out to them with six horsemen ranged behind him. The flagbearer didn't bear the Regent's personal flag, but that of the King of Vere. Even from a distance it was visible, the message obvious. All who rode against the Regent's army—Damen would not dignify him with the title King, not even in his head—were making themselves an enemy of Vere. And of Vere's new ally, Kastor.

The herald was a tall, swarthy man, on a great stallion that must measure seventeen hands. He had the visage of a man always accustomed to looking down his long nose at others, but had to lift his eyes to speak to Damen. Damen sensed his discomfort and surprise.

"Where is the traitor?" asked the herald.

"The traitor is behind you, he leads your army," replied Damen, letting his voice carry. "The traitor is he who would steal the throne from the rightful ruler, who would proclaim himself king when he was tasked with caring for the rightful king, his brother's remaining son. The man who betrayed his family."

"I speak of the traitor who beds with Akielos."

Damen grinned, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Ah, you speak of the rightful Prince, and in so doing, dishonour your position. He is otherwise engaged."

The herald remained expressionless. "You have until noon for the coward to show his face and surrender so that your lives may be spared. If he does not, you will all pay the penalty for taking up arms against the King."

The herald didn't wait for Damen's response, spinning his horse and galloping back to the Regent's army, the other horsemen following. Not that Damen would have surrendered, or offered any prospect of a truce, and they both knew Laurent would not treaty. The Regent's life became forfeit when he butchered Nicaise.

The sun was still ascending when the Regent's trumpets sounded and his army began to march forward. 

Damen had expected nothing less. The Regent had not given him cause to trust any word he offered. Damen was ready. His men were ready. He gave the signal to the drummer. They moved forward, slow and steady and determined, marching to the beat the drummer set. 

The Regent's men were well-drilled, moving as one, ranks of cavalry at the fore, infantry tight-massed behind, their archers protected at the rear. Damen had expected nothing less. Many of them would have been trained by the King, Laurent's father, and Prince Auguste. They would not break easily. The sun glittered on their armour and weapons, and the ground reverberated like the aftershocks of an earthquake. Ahead, to the left and to the right, all Damen could see was men marching into battle, shields up, spears high.

"The Prince will arrive, will he not?" called out Nikandros under the cover of movement, the jangling of bridles and stomp of hooves and boots ensuring that nothing less than a battle cry would carry past the two of them.

_Trust me_ , Laurent had said, the last words before he'd ridden away. "Yes, he will be here. He will be here at noon," said Damen firmly, aware as he spoke of the height of the sun in the sky.

The Regent's army were almost upon them, a perfect line, shields raised in formation. Damen had time for one last word before there was no time left to think. He turned to Jord, riding at his other side. 

"We're fighting for Laurent," said Damen, and saw understanding in Jord's eyes.

Damen's horse raced under him, held in check only by Damen's light grip on the bridle. He could feel her excitement, the strength of her under his thighs. 

And then... He was swept up in the melee. The front lines shuddered with the force of the attack, but neither halted, just slowed, the speed of approach dulled to a crashing shove and thrust. Horses went down around him, and his own slipped once as the dry grass turned to a slippery, bloody mess. He saw Jord raise his sword just in time to stave off a spear, and Nikandros judder with the force of a sword against his shield. 

"Hold the line," ordered Damen, and heard the call pass along from man to man, no one voice able to carry far in the pandemonium. 

Blood splattered his arm. Not his own, though he wasn't sure he'd feel pain immediately even if he were hit. He was caught up in the rush of battle, the tumult that let a man perform feats that sounded incredible in the telling afterwards, yet at the time required no thought. Thought was impossible anyway; this was what he had been training for since he was old enough to hold a sword, sense-memory taking over from rational thought. He jabbed his sword into the armpit of a soldier, into the small crevasse where his armour didn't protect him. He didn't stop to see the man fall, but pressed onwards.

He could see a flag—the flag of the King of Vere—ahead. He raised his sword and pointed. That direction. That was where they needed to make the main thrust. He wanted the Regent in his sight, his sword at the traitor's throat. Damen wanted to see his blood spill. He wanted this for Laurent—if he could give him nothing else, if he could never speak civilly with him again, never hold him, never kiss him until he turned from sharp to limpid, never hear the soft sounds he made when he let go, never wake up to his private smile, at least he could give him this. 

He could destroy the monster that would put his nephew through such cruel games.

Men were falling, then being trampled on. Their line was pressing forward, then pushed back, forward, back, a swaying morass of fighters. They were too closely matched. Back more, the advantage of the higher ground telling. He could still see the flag when he could spare a glance upwards, but he couldn't get closer. His arms were tiring, but still he slashed anyone in his way, shouted orders to be relayed along the troops. 

"Forward," he cried. "Forward." Jord was pressed to his side, legs clashing as they tried to force their way ahead.

The sun was above them now. The shadows were short, harsh and black and unforgiving, no soft shroud over the dead or wounded. All the ugliness of war was visible. It was noon. Time for their rendezvous.

All he could do was hope that his trust had been well-placed. Believe that the man he'd judged so wrongly at first had the skill and strength to carry out their plan. Have faith that he wouldn't be late.

And as he thought of Laurent, a cry came up, a massed cry loud enough to carry. The rear of the Regent's army was under attack. It was impossible to see clearly, but there was a spearhead of blue and gold striking towards the same goal Damen was striving, and the line in front of Damen was wavering as their forces were being split in two. Just a momentary waver, but it was all he needed. 

He didn't feel his exhaustion any more. He could fight forever. The rider in front of him veered away, fear on his face. Damen didn't care how he made passage forward, whether men parted for him or he struck them down or felled their mounts. The noise of battle washed over him, groans and shouts and the crash of weapons faded. All he could hear was the sound ahead, the cries that told him that Laurent had arrived. He felt the relief in the men around him, Veresians and Akielons alike, out of all proportion to the number of men that Laurent must have been able to bring with him. He was their Prince, and he was in the fray, and they would fight for him. 

A flurry ahead. Commotion, and the sounds of confusion seeped into Damen's consciousness. There was something new happening ahead. A broadsword nearly caught his arm, but Jord was there, deflecting. They fought well together, for all their animosity. There was the blood of other men mingling with the sweat on the flank of his horse, but she was steady under him still. She kept her footing even as her hooves stepped on the shattered armour of fallen men.

Damen turned to Nikandros and raised his sword arm, once, twice, jabbing at the air. Nikandros repeated the motion and his herald took up the command, trumpeting the call to press forward. The rider in front of Damen went down. Damen moved back in his seat, willed his horse up over the fallen mount. There was no clear landing on the other side and his horse stumbled. It saved his life, a spear meant for his fighting arm sliding harmlessly over his brigandine. It was a good sign.

A cut off scream. "The Regent flees." Damen could not guess at the source of the words, but he knew immediately that they were true. The Regent's men were still fighting, but their hearts were faltering. Their line was no longer steady and their battle cries were weaker. Their hope was spilling out with the blood of their fallen comrades, and their strength with it. 

The uproar ahead, that must be the Regent and his inner circle moving against the tide of their own men. It was the sign of a coward, a man who would leave his own men to be destroyed. Damen could see it on the faces of the men who turned to look over their shoulders as the Regent's colours moved off the battlefield.

Damen would not let him escape. The rest were immaterial—allowing them to flee was part of the battle strategy; cornered men fought more ferociously than those given a path to escape—but the Regent was his. Damen wanted his life. He wanted to stand over him and watch the light go out of his eyes. He thought of Nicaise. He thought of Erasmus. He thought of Laurent, and he urged his horse forward.

Damen remembered the rest of the battle as fractured moments. His destrier taking a glancing blow on her flank, but barely faltering beneath him. Lifting his sword and bringing it down with deadly force against the neck of the Regent's commander. His own cry of frustration as the Regent slipped further away from them, fleeing in the one direction none of Damen's or Laurent's men could reach in time to head him off. The sound of trumpets calling for retreat as the Regent's men fell apart, leaderless, no one left to fight for. The bloodbath as the cavalry dispatched the unprotected archers and infantry men. 

The first clear sight of Laurent through the melee, his golden hair uncovered and shining almost as bright as the sun, or at least, so it seemed to Damen. 

Dismounting and standing next to Laurent, their forces finally joined. 

The purple bruise on Laurent's jaw, a reminder of the punch Damen had landed.

  


"The Regent escaped," said Damen, and he couldn't keep his voice steady. He wanted to say _I'm sorry_ , and _I let you down_ , and he wanted to say so many other things, but Jord was there, and Enguerran and Guymar, and he did not want witnesses to the words he needed to say.

They stood in the centre of the battlefield, dismounted, their horses restless by their sides. Damen leaned on his sword, suddenly weary.

Laurent spoke eventually. "That... that is only to be expected. It does not concern me."

"But..." Damen shook his head. It wasn't a matter to dismiss as of no importance. They had won the battle, but Damen had still failed.

"It was inevitable. You didn't really expect to bring him down in one pitched battle, did you?" He spoke as a seasoned warrior would speak to a novice.

_Yes, I did_. That was exactly what Damen had hoped. It wasn't part of the plan they'd hatched out hastily two nights earlier, but he'd let himself hope. More than hope. He'd imagined the moment, so sure of it.

"Your Highness," said Nikandros, riding up to them and dismounting. Damen couldn't help turning at the title; both he and Laurent turned their heads as one. "Damianos," Nikandros clarified, and Damen finally understood what men meant when they said their blood ran cold. He felt it within him, a chill spreading through him as he waited for Laurent's reaction, every breath a conscious effort. It was as though he were waiting for the executioner's axe, the weapon poised above him waiting to fall. Every fraction of a second dragged. "The Regent's men, some have laid down their weapons, but the remainder continue to attempt to flee. What would you have me do?" Nikandros continued, but Damen barely heard the words.

Laurent must have heard, surely, even with the hubbub around them. Unless he had misheard. Heard the name he expected to hear. Damen took a deep breath, in and out, and another. He tried to force out an answer to the question, but Laurent spoke first.

"Let his men flee. They will head towards Fortaine, even though they must have wondered at the lack of reinforcements. Perhaps they still judge them no more than late. As for my uncle, he is long gone. He will head north, no doubt. We are in no position to chase him down now." He sounded as icily calm as if he were discussing a day's hunting and the loss of an old hound. He didn't look towards Damen.

Enguerran had been silent until now. "But will not the men serve to strengthen Fortaine or break the siege?" He was wounded, a gash on his arm bleeding sluggishly, though not such that it presented any threat to his life. There was a dirty rag tied around the wound, caked dried blood on it. A reopened wound from whatever skirmish they met up with at Fortaine, then, not from today.

Laurent looked tired, bone weary, though his posture gave no sign of it, simply the dull smudges in the fine skin under his eyes, and the way he blinked too often, eyes that wanted to close.

Last night, with all the worry of the battle ahead, Damen had not realized how much relief he would feel to see Laurent arrive safely. Even though his secret was out, he was still glad—more than glad—to see Laurent. He rallied. "In such small numbers, they will be of little use, and no threat to the siege party." Though as he said it, he wondered. Laurent had ridden up with close to a hundred men. That left little more than twenty to hold siege to Fortaine, well nigh impossible.

Laurent looked at him, his expression inscrutable. "And in their current state, defeated and some wounded, they will weaken morale."

Laurent was ever the shrewd thinker.

Damen held his gaze. "Does the siege hold?"

"It does."

"Your Highness—" he started. "Laurent," he said more quietly, moving forward as he spoke, though he had no idea how the sentence should end. He didn't want to ask practical questions about the siege, how Laurent could be confident so few were holding it. He wanted to ask impossible questions with impossible answers.

He didn't have the chance to ask anything. Jord stepped forward, boldly and unambiguously placing himself between Damen and Laurent. His jaw was set. 

He received no rebuke from Laurent.

The chill in Damen's blood was replaced by a burning sensation, as though his body couldn't decide which way to torture him. He needed to move, to work. There were wounded to be taken back to Ravenel, weapons to be gathered from those who'd need them no more. The men needed water and food. That he could organize.

He turned away without further words. He strode among Nikandros' men and answered questions. He handed off his horse to a soldier. "Rub her down and put a blanket on her," he ordered. She would need to cool down slowly after a battle like today. He would have cared for her himself, but now was not the time to lose himself in work like that. 

One of Nikandros' commanders shared a skin of water with him; Damen used some of it to wipe off the blood splatter and grime. The man was gone before Damen could thank him, heading towards a tent being hastily erected on a flat portion of land to the north of the battlefield. 

The aftermath was like that of any battle, full of unpleasant tasks. Nikandros' men were fast and efficient, but the sound of groans still carried over the clamour of men working. They were the victors, but they had still lost many men.

From a distance, Damen watched Laurent and Nikandros head inside the command tent. He should have followed, but he didn't. 

He felt the passage of time, saw men come and go from the tent, gave orders of his own, but didn't once lay eyes on Laurent.

It was halfway between noon and sunset when Jord came to him. "He wants to see you," he said. And then, coldly: "he will never forgive you."

"I know," said Damen. After all, how could he be forgiven?

There was a table in the centre of the tent. Maps laid out on it, weighted down at the corners with goblets and a dagger, and Laurent beside it, tracing a line with his finger. Nikandros was shaking his head, but at what, Damen couldn't tell. They were both still in full armour, as was Damen.

"Ah, Damen, you're here now," said Laurent, as though he were greeting a tardy acquaintance. _Friends. Is that what we are?_ Laurent had asked, high up on the battlements at Ravenel, just days ago. There was no intimation of anything as warm as friendship in his attitude.

"Attacking Fortaine now is foolhardy. The men are tired, and it will be dark before we arrive." Nikandros sounded as though he had presented this argument before.

"Exactly," said Laurent. "So they won't be expecting us. They will be bedded down for the night, a few watchmen keeping an eye on the surrounding troops."

"Speaking of which," Damen interrupted. "How many men did you leave holding the fort?" Keeping the reinforcements in Fortaine from joining the Regent had been crucial to their strategy. If Laurent had left so few men that the defenders might have been able to attack and break the siege, then today would have been lost.

Laurent was quiet, and when he spoke, it was as though it was for Damen only. "I still have men loyal to me, men who remember my brother. The men of the Marches have no love for my uncle."

"You didn't tell me they would come." Part quiet rebuke of a withholding of details, part plea for a return to the openness they'd begun to have. Though that was built on a lie, and they both knew it now. Damen had no right to rebuke or plea.

"They came by sea. I couldn't know for certain if or when they would arrive. Winds can be uncertain at this time of year, especially along that part of the coast."

Damen was glad Laurent was not as friendless as he seemed. But still, the idea of attacking an old fort such as Fortaine in the dark was surely madness. And if Laurent were ignoring Nikandros' misgivings, then Damen had to be the one to speak.

"We cannot attack at night, even with the benefit of surprise and numbers. We have no siege engines, no catapults or even scaling ladders, unless your friends from the Marches have come equipped."

"We won't need them," said Laurent. "The gate will open as we approach."

"I see," said Damen, who most certainly did not see. He walked around the table, as though looking at the map from a different angle might give him some insight. It didn't.

"I have bribed the gatekeeper," said Laurent. Of course. Damen should have expected that. "He will open the gate. And he will ensure that the majority of the men at arms are in no fit state to fight."

Damen hardly dared ask. Yet he did. "Is he going to drug the water supply?"

Laurent looked affronted. "Of course not. That would affect everyone, women and children and servants as well as soldiers. Besides, Fortaine has a series of deep wells, designed to withstand siege—it would be hard to judge the amount of drugs required. He has drugged the barrels of drink."

Damen didn't bother to stifle his laugh. "So we will walk in through an open gate to be met by soldiers who can barely stand upright."

"I'm sure there are some soldiers who won't have drunk anything stronger than water, and who will be able to put up a fight. But, essentially, yes. If we attack tonight, the fort should fall."

As was the case with Ravenel, the fort would fall with no damage to the fort and minimal to the inhabitants. No one should ever underestimate Laurent.

  


Preparations to move were made quickly. Laurent ordered the body of the Regent's commander to be bound and slung over a pack horse. It would be an unsubtle gift for Guion, showing him what happened with those who allied themselves with the Regent over the Crown Prince.

They rode out at a brisk pace. Everyone wanted the day to be over, to get their second victory and rest. Everyone except Damen. Laurent had still given no sign that he had heard Nikandros address Damen by his true name. He rode tall in his saddle, discussed details with Enguerran and Nikandros and occasionally Damen, their relative positions at the head of the army shifting as they spoke with one another. Damen thought he saw a glimmer of sympathy in Jord's eyes, though he must have been mistaken.

The ride was long enough for Damen to begin to feel the aches from the battle. He spared a moment of gratitude to Paschal for his ministrations and ointments when his back was healing. Without them, he had little doubt that the muscles in his back would be far more knotted and painful than they were. What was it that Laurent had told Paschal to say to persuade Damen to accept the treatment? Ah, yes. The better it healed, the better able he would be to swing a sword and kill many people. 

He had swung his sword and killed many people today.


	2. Chapter 2

They rode quietly in their approach, all torches extinguished, rags tied over the horses hooves to muffle the sound. A good watchman would see them anyway, and a good watchmen would not drink while on watch, but every second of surprise would add to the elements on their side.

A rainstorm would be welcome, but the sky had held no hint of cloud all day, and rainstorms were rare this far south in the summer. Sudden thunderstorms might occur, but the lightning would serve against them. The air didn't offer any prospect of thunder. At least not from the sky. From Laurent, it was hard to tell whether Damen could expect continued calm or a sudden explosion.

The gates opened with barely a creak. They were massive, two vast wooden doors with iron crosspieces, draped with wet animal skins to resist any attempts from the besiegers at burning them. It was the first Veresian fort that Damen had entered without his gold collar. The only visible sign of his past slavery was the cuff on his wrist. He traced the outline of it before readying himself for entry. To his left, he caught a glance from Laurent, too quick for Damen to see his expression. Damen felt his face flush at being caught touching the cuff, ridiculous as that was. Laurent, after all, was the one who'd demanded the other cuff as a gift.

The first sign of resistance was moments before they entered the fort, and was as ineffective as it was late. A feeble shower of arrows shot by archers lining the ramparts who might as well have been blind for all the good they achieved. Then the sonorous chimes of a warning bell. Someone was still sufficiently alert to raise the alarm, though it wasn't going to save the castle. Damen made a mental note to search out the faithful watchman afterwards—if he proved willing to be loyal to Laurent, he would be an asset.

There was a sudden flurry after the bell, men on foot rushing to meet them, carrying torches that only served to highlight their position, other soldiers struggling onto horses. Too little, too late. Even slowed down by the narrow funnel of the gateway, their men were able to overwhelm the opposition. The defenders were overcome, some before they had even raised their weapons. It was an utter rout, decisive and fast.

The only real attempt at repelling them came from the great hall, Guion and his eldest two sons, their closest advisors, their personal guard. The gatekeeper had not been able to touch their food or drink—they were sober and angry. Even in certain defeat they refused to surrender.

Damen wondered if Guion would barter—his surrender for his son's lives—but he didn't. He charged, a man too old for a fight like this, sword raised up against his rightful ruler, and was struck down by one of Laurent's guard before Damen or Laurent could reach him. The blow was to his sword arm, leaving him on his knees before Laurent, but not deep enough to be a death blow.

"Imprison them," Laurent ordered. "In the morning they will pay the price of treason." He took two steps forward, and stood as Guion was pulled ungently to his feet.

"You made the wrong choice," Laurent said, looking over Guion, then to his two sons. He might have been making the final move in a chess game, for all the emotion he showed.

"You will never be a worthy king, even if you live long enough to reach the throne. Not like your brother or uncle," Guion spat. "You are the traitor, you and your Akielon bedfellows."

Damen was probably the only person who sensed the sudden tension in Laurent's stance, the tightening of his jaw and faint narrowing of his eyes. If he had not been watching Laurent so carefully, struggling to tear his eyes away from him, he would have sworn Laurent had not reacted at all.

Once Guion and the others were gone, only Laurent, Nikandros and Damen remained. The hall was huge, the rafters barely visible in the flickering torch light. Fortaine was very much like Ravenel, old and functional, with smoke-darkened stone walls and heavy carved wood furnishings. There was blood on the floor, a sticky pool where Guion had fallen.

Laurent pulled out one of the narrow chairs from a side table, put his booted foot up on the edge of it, and examined it, grimacing as though the traces of blood and sandy dust were personally offensive to him. He looked to Damen. "I suppose you expect me to offer the sons the opportunity to swear loyalty and spare their lives."

"I would consider you a fool if you did. And I've never thought you a fool." Damen smiled, lips pulled slightly, though it was hardly the moment for humour.

More than anything right now, he wanted to talk to Laurent alone. He didn't know if he'd be given the chance, or what he could possibly say, or if it would end with swords or daggers or poison. He couldn't stay like this, standing awkwardly in the middle of the hall, Nikandros witness to anything said, but it was hard to tear himself away now that he was once again in Laurent's company.

Thankfully, Nikandros came to his aid. "I think we are done for the night. I'll take my leave," he said, bowing his head briefly as he turned.

His footsteps echoed, the only sound in the hall.

"I should see to the men," Damen said, making a move to follow him. "Ensure none of them have at the drugged ale."

"Nikandros will see to his men. Enguerran will take care of the rest." A pause. "Though, of course, Nikandros' men are ultimately yours also."

Damen froze. Laurent looked perfectly casual as he took his foot off the chair, turned it around, and sat down, arms and chin resting on the back of the chair.

"You know," said Damen, flatly.

"Yes."

"When?" Had he heard from someone who'd been at Ravenel before he rode into battle at noon today, or had it been that moment when Nikandros treated them as equals, princes, and spoke his full name?

"The day I first set eyes on you."

Damen stumbled to the table, pulling out a chair for himself. His legs felt weak. _When I first set eyes on you_. That very first day, Damen stripped to nothing, bowed before him in chains, barely able to lift his head. And then later the violence and cruelty of the lashing. He'd said it wasn't that bad when Paschal had reminded him of it, but that was easier said at a distance from the deed. He'd nearly died. Laurent had wanted him to die.

He remembered hatred in Laurent's eyes whenever he'd looked at Damen. "When you said you knew what it was like to want to kill a man and have to wait ..."

"Yes. That was you." Laurent didn't look away from him.

"But ..."

"What, you thought I would not know the face of my greatest enemy? I was at Marlas, remember. I fought there. I memorised your face so that when I trained, when I visualised killing you, I could picture what you would look like, lying on the ground with my sword piercing your heart."

Damen didn't know if he wanted to weep or rage. If he wanted to shake Laurent or strike himself in sheer frustration. He had been so blind. He was a fool. On the few occasions he'd had to think since Nikandros knelt to him at Ravenel, he had imagined how this conversation might go. The one factor he hadn't taken into consideration was Laurent. Since Laurent had begun to take him into his confidence, Damen had forgotten Laurent's acute perception, his eye for detail even as a newly bereaved boy on a battlefield. He'd been too long comfortable and forgotten Laurent's ability to hide what he truly felt.

It was then that Jord entered. Damen cursed his timing.

Jord looked between the two of them, then turned to Laurent.

"Your Highness," he said, letting his tone say that, to him at least, Damen was not forgiven.

"No," said Laurent.

Jord didn't know when to keep silent. "But you know what he's done. Who he is." He was pleading.

"Why is he here?" Laurent asked of Damen.

"I asked him to fight beside me today."

Laurent acknowledged that with a brief nod, then turned back to Jord.

"You have no say here." His expression was as stern as his words were final. There was no opening for any argument. Jord left.

"It is late," said Laurent eventually. "We have done all that was necessary today." They should be celebrating: Laurent now held Acquitart, Ravenel and Fortaine. And he had taken the latter two with minimal loss of life. But neither of them could celebrate, not after today's revelations.

"Yes," Damen said, nothing else. He was learning from Laurent, not saying everything that was in his head. If he did, if it all came spilling out, he didn't know where it would end, and now was not the time for that.

Laurent stood up, and Damen said nothing to keep him there. Beneath the calm surface, Damen could see the subtle signs of both physical and mental exhaustion. Laurent needed to be alone.

  


Damen found a servant to take him to his quarters. They were large and comfortable, but not excessive. Clearly he had been brought to his own quarters this time, not Laurent's. He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

He suffered the ministrations of the servants impatiently. They lit a brazier in the corner of his room, the night growing chilly despite the heat of the day, and put warm stones in his bed. They left him food and drink and clusters of candles. One brought a bowl of warm water and soft towels, but Damen motioned him away when he started to unstopper oils. Damen still had work to do. There was little he could do for Laurent now, other than ensure his solitude. He didn't have far to go to find Laurent's room. There were no guards nearby, though, so Damen went in search of men he could trust. He found two of Laurent's personal guard and set them to guard his room.

"If anyone asks to speak to the Prince, send them to me first," said Damen. "The Prince is not to be disturbed, under any circumstances."

He gave orders for the destruction of all the ale the gatekeeper had tainted, only to find that Enguerran had beaten him to the task. There was discipline throughout the keep: men celebrating, yes, but the signs of restraint were there also. They would be fit to set about repairs to armour and weaponry and other needed work tomorrow. Paschal had been set up in a large infirmary—he waved Damen away when Damen looked in on him.

There would have to be a discussion about the command structure: the men needed to know whose orders to follow. But that would wait until tomorrow. For tonight, there was nothing left for Damen to do.

  


Damen slept fitfully. The bed was softer than the slave pallet he'd grown used to, and the thick walls and heavy doors blocked out the distant sounds of the men outside, but his mind wouldn't settle into the restful thoughts needed for peaceful sleep.

He kept thinking of the bravery of Auguste, how he held the line for so many hours. How much of a hero he must have been to a young Laurent. How cruel that day must have been for him.

His back ached. If Paschal had not been occupied with the wounded, Damen would have asked him for salve. If he had thought earlier, he could have had a servant massage his back. Yet, in a way, the discomfort was a useful reminder of the hatred Laurent must feel for him. It wouldn't do to forget that, to think that the night they spent together was in any way indicative of any future relations between them.

  


He woke to a faint noise. Nothing threatening, not even loud enough to wake him had he been sleeping soundly.

"I think I prefer these rooms to mine," said Laurent, looking around him. The candles had all burned down, but Damen could see the shadows of his face by the light of the brazier. He was wandering around Damen's room, dressed simply in a white shirt and pants.

"I can't imagine you're here to ask me to move."

"I should hate you still," said Laurent. There was a catch in his voice, a weakness that he rarely allowed anyone to see. "I do hate you," he insisted.

"I know," said Damen. He sat up, leaning back on the pillows. Laurent stilled at the centre of the room, looking at Damen's clothes and armour, laid out neatly on a trunk at the foot of the bed.

"I had thought you would wear Akielon armour," he said.

"You're not the only one," said Damen.

"It would be easier if—" Laurent faded into silence. Damen couldn't even begin to guess what he'd been trying to say, but didn't want to force him to finish. The least Damen could do now was give Laurent time.

He thought all that and still blurted out the offer. "I can leave. In the morning. I _will_ leave. The three days are over."

Laurent nodded slowly. "Yes, of course."

"Do you want to—" To talk about how I killed your brother, how I slept with you and didn't tell you who I was. How I have been deceiving you all this time. There was no easy way to ask any of that.

"I want you to fuck me," said Laurent, sudden and vicious. "Or is that not in your purview now that you are no longer my pet."

Damen didn't want some angry coupling, Laurent spitting out commands. If this were to be the last night they'd spend together, he wanted to do the things he hadn't been able the other night, when Laurent was still as skittish as an unbroken colt, barely willing to be touched. Damen wanted to touch. Damen wanted to lavish all the affection he could on Laurent, and he wanted Laurent to soften enough to let it sink it. He wanted Laurent to feel cherished, sense how much Damen wanted to be able to cherish him.

That was never going to happen now, though. Damen had to accept that.

"I want it too," he said.

"Really?" Laurent sneered. "And yet there you are still. Do I have to do all the work?"

Damen had come to realize that there was no reasoning with Laurent when he was in a mood like this, not until he had had time to cool down. Least of all when he didn't want to calm down, when his anger was his sole remaining defence, fuelled by the fear of what he'd show without it.

Damen lifted off the light covers and kicked his legs over the side of the bed. As he stood up, he felt the aches of the day press in on him, hard-worked muscles almost too tight to move. He ignored them. Laurent was still standing there, waiting, arms by his side, hands clenched.

Damen moved into his space, standing right in front of him. It had an effect. Laurent's breathing stuttered a moment, and then settled into a deliberate steady, slow pattern. As Damen started on the intricate laces of his shirt, Laurent determinedly unclenched his hands and lifted his gaze up to match Damen's.

"You should try Akielon clothing some time," Damen suggested. "It is far more practical at times like this."

"Why should I? I have you undressing me."

Damen wanted to take pleasure in the act, the slow revealing of creamy skin. He let the backs of his fingers casually brush against Laurent's chest, feeling the shallow rise and fall of it, hoping for the sort of reaction gentle touches had garnered him before. Instead, Laurent simply tightened his jaw and stood motionless under Damen's ministrations.

"Shall I suck you first?" Damen asked when he'd finished unlacing the shirt.

"Yes. Why not?" Laurent answered, as cool as if he were bartering in an insignificant business transaction. Damen fell to his knees on the stone floor in front of Laurent. Laurent's pants were laced loosely; Damen unlaced them enough to free Laurent's cock.

Laurent showed no sign of arousal. His body was tense, his cock soft. Damen hesitated.

"I had not thought it necessary to provide instructions this time," said Laurent.

Laurent had said he wanted this, had as good as demanded that Damen fuck him. And yet everything about him, his demeanour, his lack of arousal told a different story. "Are you—" Damen didn't complete the sentence. If he were to ask if Laurent were sure of this, he could easily imagine the unimpressed reaction. So he would do this. He placed one hand on Laurent's hip, fingers spread out over the hip bone and his thumb dipping into the grove in front, touching without asking for permission, either verbally or in more subtle ways. His intent wasn't to hold Laurent in place; he needed the touch for himself, so that it wouldn't just be his mouth on Laurent's cock. The warmth of Laurent's skin filtered through the soft, thin fabric of his pants. He found himself smoothing the pad of his thumb in small increments, the barest of motions, and when he looked up, Laurent's eyes were flickering closed.

"I suppose we do have all night. That said, I would rather like to get to sleep at some stage, so let's not drag this out interminably," said Laurent, but there was something in his voice, the faintest catch, that said his composure was failing him.

Damen ignored the words. He lifted his other hand to Laurent's abdomen and lightly stroked his nails downwards, across taut skin, stopping as he reached golden curls. Laurent's cock was beginning to stiffen, just from this, and Damen could feel his own response, the warmth in his groin as his body reacted.

Damen leaned in and pressed a mollifying kiss to Laurent's abdomen, heedless of whether it would provoke a sarcastic comment. Another kiss, and another, each lower than the previous, and Damen could get addicted to this, to the delicate hesitations in Laurent's breathing, the faintest gasp that Laurent failed to hold in. He lingered, lips pressed to the lowest part of Laurent's stomach, let his eyes close and pretend that this was the first of many times, not the last.

Laurent was quiet. It was strange, and Damen didn't know whether he'd rather put up with bitchy remarks than be surrounded by this silence. If he had the gift of words, he'd talk now. Blend his kisses with whispered nonsense pressed into Laurent's soft skin, reveal all his secret, foolish hopes.

Instead, he left one final kiss and sat back on his heels. Laurent's cock was ripe with blood now, and Damen wanted nothing more in that second that to tumble Laurent onto the bed, all clumsy limbs as though it were a first time for both of them, fumbling and awkward and something they could laugh at afterwards, in the warm comfortable afterglow. But that was his desire, not Laurent's. Laurent was looking straight ahead, as though there were fascinating stories to be found in the tapestry behind the bed. Perhaps there were, though in the dim light, Damen doubted Laurent could make them out.

He leaned forward and licked a single long stripe along Laurent's cock. A log slipped in the brazier behind Laurent, the crash and crackle loud, bright sparks flickering up into the air and vanishing again. Another lick, just the tip this time, teasing flicks of the tongue and soft exhalations of warm breath that Damen didn't advertise in advance. Occasionally he'd move in further, suckling the head as if he were about to give more, and then he'd pull back without warning and place an almost innocent seeming kiss on the edge of skin where Laurent's pants fell open. He gave no warning either when he stopped teasing, and pressed down, filling his mouth, letting himself enjoy the weight on his tongue, the pressure at the back of his mouth just manageable.

He wished Laurent would fuck his mouth, lose that steely control and push desperately into him. But he didn't.

He should feel owned, used, down on his knees at Laurent's chilly orders. He didn't feel used, but found himself wanting to feel owned, to own Laurent in return, to be the only one to touch. It was ridiculous, and Damen didn't understand how it had come to this, how he had so quickly grown overwhelmed. Not just from the ache in his jaw as he sucked, or the wetness on his chin, or the sensation on his tongue as he twisted it around Laurent's cock. He was overwhelmed by the need to do everything in his power to care for Laurent. Everything Laurent might permit.

He slowed, sucking as one might a ice-cold summer treat, savouring the taste. Then realized that with all the skill and attention Damen was applying to him, Laurent wasn't anywhere near release. Far from it in fact.

This wasn't like that first time, sheer force of will preventing Laurent from letting go. This was entirely different, an overwhelming array of emotions perhaps, anger and hurt preventing pleasure. There was a time when Damen didn't believe Laurent could feel anything other than petty emotions, spite and cruelty and delight in the pain of others. Now the hurt was radiating from him, hard as he was trying to keep it hidden. His cock was softening, even with Damen's continued ministrations.

Damen couldn't keep silent any longer. Couldn't do this. He pulled off and tucked Laurent into his pants, did up the laces loosely, the way Laurent chose for sleep, then stood up gracelessly, swaying slightly on the balls of his feet as he stood in front of Laurent.

Laurent had the appearance of a man who was refusing to run, muscles locked into stillness. "I'm ..."

"It's been a long day," said Damen, willing Laurent to take hold of the excuse.

"We both know that is not the issue." Laurent, in his open shirt and soft white pants, barefoot, looked far too young to be battling for his life and a kingdom, to have lost his father and his brother, to be so alone in the world. Damen remembered once upon a time believing that Laurent was the last person in the world who needed protecting from anything or anyone, but he had been wrong. For all Laurent's strength and resolve, he was still just on the cusp of adulthood, should have still had someone to guide him. Protect him.

"I tried to kill your uncle for you today." Damen wasn't certain if it was the most comforting thing he could say, or the worst, a reminder that he was a killer, the enemy Laurent had grown up swearing to destroy.

"It's for the best that he lived. After all, I'm not of age yet. Vere without a ruler is unthinkable."

"You're thinking like a prince," Damen admonished.

"I have to," said Laurent. "It would be a mistake for me to think like a man in such matters."

"You can," Damen reassured him, "at least for a night. Come to bed. Just ... sleep. Here."

Laurent raised an eyebrow. "In your bed?"

"Yes. Is that such a terrible thing?"

Laurent appeared to ponder the idea, then, without answering, walked across to the bed and got in.

"That's my side of the bed," said Damen.

"Not now it isn't."

  


They laid on their respective sides, a discreet distance between them, enough that the covers pooled between them. And all Damen could think was how much he wanted an excuse to pull Laurent to him, hold him tight and protect him. A hand span felt like a day's journey.

Laurent sighed. "You're thinking too loud."

"I'm thinking no more nor less than usual, and my thoughts have never appeared to disturb you before."

"This time you're thinking about me."

"How do you know I haven't gone to sleep thinking about you before?"

"I'm sure you have. You've probably dreamed of slipping a knife up into my ribcage before escaping, or exacting some other revenge."

"And that has never interrupted your sleeping. Yet whatever concerned thoughts you imagine I have now, _are_ disturbing you?" There were times when Damen had the sense that he was beginning to understand Laurent. And then there were moments like this.

"If I couldn't sleep whenever someone dreamed murderous thoughts of me, I would get very little sleep." Laurent sounded resigned, as though a prince could expect nothing better.

It was Damen's turn to sigh. "So what is the problem now?"

"You're pitying me. Stop it."

"I'm not pitying you." The lie was instinctive and immediate.

"You forget, I can always tell when you're lying. You are an appalling liar. It's a weakness in a prince, you know. A good ruler should be able to lie convincingly."

Damen huffed a laugh. "How very Veresian."

Laurent drew in a deep breath. "I don't need your pity. Though I suppose I'm no longer in a position to order you to stop."

"You were never in a position to command my thoughts and feelings," said Damen, turning to face Laurent. He paused before adding: "Not when I was your slave."

Laurent closed his eyes for a moment, gold lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Opened them. "I do you an injustice," he said.

Damen reached out. His intention was just to touch, for a moment only, nothing lingering, simply a way of expressing what he lacked the eloquence to say. He didn't expect Laurent's reaction. If he'd had to guess how Laurent might respond to a hand on his shoulder, he would have anticipated tense resignation, or reluctant acceptance, not the softening that he got, Laurent moving into the touch as though it wasn't nearly enough.

It wasn't enough for Damen either. He moved with Laurent, enfolding him, and felt the tension bleed out of Laurent.

"There is no intent to this," said Damen. He pressed a chaste kiss to the top of Laurent's head, holding his lips in the glossy hair, breathing in.

It was very quiet in the room, the night-time activities of a newly fallen fort not reaching them here. So quiet, Damen could hear the steady in and out of Laurent's every breath.

"I used to sneak into my brother's rooms at night. When I was very young and couldn't sleep. He'd tell me stories, often wildly outrageous, sometimes true. He was always the hero in the stories, vanquishing foes twice his size, killing a marauding lion with his bare hands. I would drink them in and beg for more until I fell asleep in the middle of one." Laurent's voice was muffled against Damen's shoulder.

Damen had taken that from Laurent. Those safe nights, exciting stories. He felt the pang of loss as though it were his own. Battle was cruel, and the Veresians had not behaved honourably that day, but Auguste had been a brave fighter. In another life they might have been friends. "I—" Damen faltered.

He felt Laurent shake his head, then lift it so they were face to face. Even in the dim light, Damen could see the openness on Laurent's face, the softening of his expression so that he no longer hid behind a cold stare or deliberate blankness. He saw affection, longing, more. "I did not say that as a reproach. I... I have come to..." Laurent took a deep breath. "I have grown to know you, the type of man you are. See the kind of King you will be. To reconcile who you are and what we... what we have become."

Damen couldn't breathe. Laurent was speaking as though... as though they had a future. It was contrary to all reason, and yet.

A stray strand of hair had fallen over Laurent's cheek. Damen brushed it back and tucked it behind his ear. His hand lingered there.

They were so close.

This time, Laurent kissed him. There was something unpractised about it, an uncertainty at odds with the man who'd instructed Ancel in the art of cocksucking, yet utterly in keeping with the man Laurent was beginning to let Damen see.

Damen had never ached like this from a simple kiss, from the desire to kiss forever. He curled his fingers into Laurent's hair, and pushed gently back into the kiss, the warmth of it sparking inside him.

They kissed in slow motion, each kiss a tenuous brush of lips, a taste of pure skin. The corner of Laurent's mouth was heaven. His lower lip was ecstasy. Damen worked at it, scraping his teeth across it then soothing with his tongue. Laurent was making the faintest sounds, barely audible, breathed into Damen's mouth.

They could have kissed for hours. Maybe they did. Damen couldn't be expected to be aware of trivialities like the passing of time. Not when every sense was utterly absorbed by Laurent. He was barely even aware of his own arousal, not until Laurent stirred in his arms and the jolt of movement alerted him.

He edged away a fraction. He felt absurdly guilty, even though he would have had to be a eunuch not to react to the beauty in his arms. He pressed a kiss to Laurent's cheek, more chaste than their kisses so far, and willed his body to come under control. More kisses, slow and sleepy, and perhaps Laurent would fall asleep like this.

He didn't.

"I thought there was no intent," said Laurent, shifting against Damen's erection as if it weren't clear exactly what he was referring to.

"There is none," Damen assured him. No intent, but his body couldn't help reacting to the presence of Laurent, the softness of his hair against Damen's shoulder, the shallow breaths that were falling in time with Damen's own breaths.

"Your body says otherwise," Laurent pointed out.

"My body rebels. I haven't quite attained your degree of mastery over your own body." He thought of Laurent drugged and still in flinty control of himself.

Laurent was silent for a while. Then, "Let it. Let it rebel."

"But—"

"Do you want me or not?" Laurent asked, a hint in his voice that clearly suggested that he knew how foolish that question was.

"I want you," said Damen, quietly.

"So take me. We are no longer slave and master, pet and prince. We're two princes. Take me," said Laurent, flinging back the covers and lying there, open and waiting.

Damen swallowed. He was a beggar presented with a banquet, meats and pastries, sweet syllabubs and wine, unable to choose where to start. Should he try everything in case this was his only chance, back to starvation tomorrow, or should he pick the most tempting dish?

He wouldn't be so foolish as to take so long deciding the banquet was cleared away. He began with the flaw, the bruise on Laurent's jaw that he'd put there, a single tender kiss. "Does it hurt?" he asked.

Laurent rubbed it with his thumb, pressing harder than Dame would have. "It is a useful reminder," was all he said.

His neck was warm, and Damen nuzzled there, tasting the faint salt tang of a long day in the sun. He traced the fading lines left from a day in armour, indentations sweeping over his shoulders and down his chest, kissed a blossoming bruise flaring from red to purple on his arm. He'd ask about it another time, not now. Now wasn't the time to remember battles but to soothe away the last traces of them.

In between kisses, he stopped to look. Laurent's body told him everything, in truth, his usual fierce lines gone limpid, but Damen still wanted to see his face, the red of his well-kissed lips, the way his eyes kept slipping into a half-lidded ecstasy.

He traced the same lines he'd kissed earlier, but this time Laurent's breathing shallowed further when Damen lapped one tight, dark nipple with his tongue; he arched his back when Damen licked up the stretch of his hard cock.

"I have nothing here to use," said Damen, sliding a hand underneath one perfect round buttock.

Laurent stirred as though out of a dream. "Reach behind you," he said, voice blurred. Then, clearer. "From the front. I want to see you."

Damen wanted to see him too, wanted to stare down at him as he moved inside, see his own longing echoed back up at him. He nodded, then reached an arm out to the small table set beside the bed. Earlier it had just born a single candle, but now his groping hand found a small bottle. "You came prepared." He shouldn't be so astonished. This was Laurent. Always at least two moves ahead.

"I came here to demand you fuck me. A man doesn't go to battle without a sword," Laurent replied. "At least not if he intends to win."

"And you intend to win."

"I intended to conquer," said Laurent, harshly, though his anger wasn't directed outwards. His voice softened. "I... prefer this."

"Two winners."

"Yes," Laurent agreed, letting his legs fall open. His arms too, like an offering to the gods. It was a good offering. Any god would accept it, honoured.

Damen knelt over him. He poured oil on his hands, stoppering the bottle carefully to disguise the fact that he was shaking, that even though he'd been inside Laurent just three nights earlier, he still felt like a neophyte, scared of making a wrong move. Unsure if he were worthy. And then he looked down at Laurent, saw the desire, yes, in his face, in his body's obvious reaction, but also the very same uncertainty. And in his eyes, soft in the dim light of the brazier, Damen saw the capacity to love, the need to be loved.

Damen pressed one finger inside. "I don't want anyone else to ever know what I know about you," he said, quietly, as if the walls had ears.

"And what is that?" Laurent asked. His voice was certain, except at the end where it lilted up towards uncertainty.

"You are so very strong, but your heart... your heart is capable of so much more than even you know."

Damen added another finger, slowly. Laurent's knee jerked slightly at the incursion, then settled back on the bed. "I have not had many opportunities to act on my heart," he said, and Damen's own heart ached at that. For the boy who'd had to grow tough far too early.

When Damen finally sank into him, he didn't care if it was conquest or being conquered. His heart felt too big, pounding, like it wanted to break loose, like it too wanted to be joined to Laurent, one body, one heart. His heart sang to him, blessed him for this. His whole body sang, long joyous notes. He was a god. He could create worlds with a whisper, make stars fall out of the sky with a single touch, make galaxies sing their song and dance their eternal dance to the beat he set them. He was a god and even gods worship. He worshipped Laurent with every thrust, with every kiss, with every incoherent sound. With every drop of hot seed that pulsed out of him.

Even empted, he felt overfull. Blood pounding, soul alight. A surfeit of joy, something he'd never considered possible before. He tried to share it, impart it through the touch of skin against skin, until he felt Laurent's own release, wet and sticky, his own joy.

They kissed afterwards, no urgency left, but no desire to stop. "You offered earlier," said Laurent, when words had returned to them. "To leave. In the morning." He rubbed his ankle up against Damen's like a cat stretching in a patch of sun. "Don't."

"I won't," said Damen. Their kisses now were little more than brushes of lips, as though neither had the energy for more yet couldn't bring themselves to stop. When Damen finally pulled out, Laurent let out a small, disgruntled sound, and then flushed, as though all the intimacies of earlier were nothing in comparison with that.

Damen was not above enjoying it, and equally was not above showing his amusement, an easy smile as he stood up. He felt Laurent's gaze on him as he padded across the room and wet a cloth. He took his own fill as he returned and sat down on the edge of the bed. The first time he had seen Laurent without his all-covering Veresian clothing, he had been able to objectively admit that Laurent was well-proportioned, his skin fine, his beauty undeniable.

Now he had lost all objectivity. He wanted to glut himself on the view in front of him, store it up so that even in old age it would still be a pristine treasure in his memory. He towelled Laurent down, gently, as softly as if he were stroking a butterfly and afraid to disturb the fine scales on its wings. Laurent lay in a tumble and snarl of sheets, pale limbs tangled up carelessly, damp hair tousled on the pillow. He was quiescent now, slipping into sleep, but no less beautiful than he had been aroused.

When he'd finished, Damen wiped himself down quickly, dropping the cloth on the floor. He pulled the covers up over them, settling under the comfortable weight of them, and pressed against Laurent's side. "If it takes me the rest of my life," he promised in a low voice, "if it costs me my life, I will make it up to you."


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning Damen woke to a glancing beam of sunlight across his face. He lifted his arm up over his face, shielding his eyes, but it was too late to drift back into sleep. 

He knew without looking that the bed beside him was empty. Laurent had probably been gone since sunrise, denying himself even the simple pleasure of waking up beside a lover. Damen would have to introduce that delight to him.

He dressed quickly, in Akielon clothing. Without the long sleeves of his Veresian shirt, the gold cuff on his wrist stood out vividly. 

There was much to do in the aftermath of a siege, even such a short and relatively bloodless one. Families had fled from the surrounding areas—they needed to be reassured and helped to return quickly. The first harvests would be starting soon this far south, and the people could not afford to lose them. Damen set Jord in command of the men assigned to the task. It would be good for the three of them if he were elsewhere for a while.

Passing through the courtyard shortly before noon, Damen saw Laurent talking to a sandy-haired soldier, not a man he recalled seeing before. The man was grovelling, fearful. Damen adjusted his path to walk past them. 

"But I did as you ordered, Your Highness," the man was saying.

"For the coins you were offered." Laurent was at his most dismissive. The gatekeeper, then. "Not from any belief that you were doing the right thing, or from loyalty, but from greed." Laurent raised an arm and a member of his guard came running. "Take him to a cell."

The gatekeeper had at least the sense to keep silent after that. 

He was called to Laurent's rooms shortly after. There was a simple meal laid out, bread, a platter of meats, a jug of wine and one of water, and small, sweet oranges.

"I thought it might be good to dine together," said Laurent, a little hesitant as though he weren't sure if the gesture would be well received or not.

The food was good. They talked. 

They talked of many things, one theme linking them all: their future. By some unspoken agreement, they didn't discuss the past. They would need to again, but for now they needed to concentrate on events to come, not ones they couldn't change. They spoke of work to be done today and in the coming days. They spoke of the need for Laurent to hold the border, to strengthen his position here.

"I have to play a waiting game," he said, without sighing or giving any sign of frustration. "There are ten months until I come of age. And then—"

And then. Then it would be different.

"And I need to head south," said Damen. "The news will be speeding its way to Ios even now." Ios, where Kastor and Jokaste ruled.

Tomorrow, he would need to speak to Nikandros. Find out who else was still faithful, and who might be persuaded. It wouldn't be easy, but then Damen had overcome the toughest odds before. He was confident. Besides, he had not only his kingdom to fight for now. "Ten months for me to take back Akielos, and then we can strike north together."

"Together," Laurent echoed, as though he hadn't been certain that Damen would make such an offer.

The next time Damen saw Laurent was at the execution of Guion and his sons. A block had been set up in the centre of the courtyard, a milling throng of both men and women surging around it. Laurent had ordered it done mercifully, having Guion dispatched first so he did not have to watch the death of his sons. There were some cheers from the crowd each time the sword fell, but also a small group of black clad women weeping. Guion's wife wore a veil, her back straight, only bending as Guion's head fell into the basket. Her son's wives were not as strong, screaming before the executioner even raised the blade.

It was necessary, and Damen watched because he should, but he didn't like to see any woman made a widow.

They were helped away afterwards by their maidservants, a slow sad procession. The crowd parted before them, then swallowed them up so Damen couldn't see them any more.

Nikandros was absent, a tactful choice. Damen had only seen him from the distance during the day. He was glad of it: until he'd had today's colloquy with Laurent, he hadn't been ready to discuss the future with anyone else. He would take a night to deliberate, and tomorrow he would be in a position to approach Nikandros for advice. This time he would pay more heed to the counsel than he had all those months ago in the night garden.

Damen retired to his bedchamber early that night. He sat down at the table with a glass of wine and a pen and parchment, and started to plot out a route south into Akielos. He didn't need maps—he knew every stronghold and fortification, every river crossing and port. He knew all the strengths and the few weaknesses.

It was strange, working out strategies for incursion into his own country. Strange and wrong, and he felt a pang of loss when he imagined how his father would feel if he could see this. He felt a pang of a different emotion when he thought of Kastor and Jokaste. He would have to face them eventually. He would need to be very strong for that. 

A knock at the door took him out of his thoughts.

"Come in," he called.

It was one of the Prince's men. He stopped just inside the doorway. 

"Prince Laurent requests your presence in his chambers," he said. He hesitated, then continued. "He says you are to bring a gift."

Damen tilted back on his stool. It creaked. "A gift?" Damen repeated.

"He said you'd know what he meant."

Ah. Damen dismissed the man quickly before he gave away his reaction to the request. His saddlebag was in the corner of the room, his few possessions bundled in it. He had to pull everything out before he found what he was looking for. The cuff was wrapped in soft cloth. Damen left it wrapped up, and headed over to Laurent's room.

Laurent was curled up in an armchair when Damen entered, a goblet—water, no doubt—in one hand, a book in the other. His feet were tucked underneath him. The last time Damen saw him like this, he'd been drugged and Damen had been set up to take the blame for his murder. Then, however, Laurent had looked surprised to see him. Now he smiled.

"Is that for me?" he asked, motioning to the parcel under Damen's arm with his eyes.

"Are you considering a new role?"

"What did you have in mind?"

Damen tilted his head as though in deep thought. "Your looks are suitable for a Veresian slave, though of course you're rather on the old side, which would lower your value. But your temperament would render you wholly unsuitable." He let his voice grow more serious. "Really, there is just one role that I can see you fulfilling well."

"And that is?" Laurent prompted.

"King."

Laurent dropped his eyes, but not before Damen had seen the pleased expression in them. "I could say the same of you," said Laurent. "Except that I can see you succeeding admirably in two roles, not just the one."

It was Damen's turn to be impatient at the pause. "Oh?"

"Lover," Laurent said, getting up smoothly and walking over to Damen. He held out his hand for the cuff, and Damen unwrapped it and gave it to him. "I would never wear this," he said, even as he clipped it loosely over his arm.

"It's too big for you," said Damen automatically, while he processed Laurent's earlier word. "Though gold suits you."

"I haven't worn any jewellery for years," said Laurent. Some expression Damen couldn't quite place swept across his face as he said that, but it was gone before Damen could try to understand it, shaken off like raindrops after a storm. "That earring was a disguise: it doesn't count. And I'm not going to begin with this," Laurent said, slipping it off and putting it down on a side table.

"So why did you want me to bring it to you?"

Laurent shrugged. "I told you before that you should give it to me. Apparently I needed to remind you of that. I shall just have to trust that you are a more thoughtful lover in other ways."

Lovemaking had always been a matter of joyous abandon to Damen, giving pleasure and receiving it in equal measure. It was a pleasure like fine wine was a pleasure, like a good day's hunting on a clear autumn day. 

Damen thought back to his very first hunt, his excitement at being allowed to ride by the side of his older brother and his father. He had barely slept the night before, so eager he'd been at the prospect. 

There was something of that same feeling in his belly now, only magnified ten fold. He was hard already. Tumbling a beautiful woman—or man—had never done this for him.

"I will do my best," he promised, and started to unlace Laurent's shirt. This was nothing like last night. He smiled at Laurent then cursed as he fumbled with the laces. "I should take a knife to these wretched contraptions," he said, and Laurent simply laughed.

"Remember my sole income at present is from Acquitart, and you are currently dispossessed and wearing your entire fortune on your arm, so unless you wish me to walk around naked at all times, you might at least try to leave my clothing wearable after you've finished with it."

"You do realise that with every word you speak I'm more tempted simply to tear off your clothes and fling you to the bed to quiet that tongue?"

Laurent shuddered. "Patience," he said unsteadily. If his intention had been to make Damen less patient, then he succeeded. Damen tore at the laces, then attacked the ones on Laurent's sleeves. He swore under his breath as he worked at them. He didn't bother to unlace them fully. As soon as they were sufficiently loose, he tugged the shirt over Laurent's head. It left his hair mussed, and Damen noted the slight flush in his cheeks. It was not from wine.

"My turn," said Laurent, and attended to Damen. His clothing was practical and fell off him easily. Laurent huffed.

"What, are you irked by practical attire? Does it offend you?"

"I get to admire the view sooner, it is true," said Laurent, matching a long, slow up and down gaze to his words, a very noticeable extra second allotted to Damen's groin, "but anticipation is not something to be scoffed at." He began unlacing his own pants, until Damen batted his hands away and took over.

"I fear that means my plan to throw you on the bed as soon as we were both naked is going to be thwarted."

Laurent didn't answer immediately. He stepped out of his pants as soon as they were loosened, and held out his hand to Damen, then walked them over to a door on the far side of the room. He was moving them away from the bed. Damen knew he was right.

"I hope we're not about to run naked through the fort," said Damen.

Laurent turned his head slightly, and simply raised one eyebrow. Damen took it as a no.

As soon as Laurent opened the door, steam filtered through. The room was small for a bathing room, plain and practical like the rest of the castle, two wooden benches to the side of a square sunken bath, but the scent of oils and the warmth more than compensated.

There were steps into the water. Laurent led them down the steps, then sat down on the second step, water up over his waist. Damen sank down beside him. It must be the warmth that made it so hard to breathe.

Laurent turned to him. "It must be at least fifteen years since I last ran naked through the palace corridors."

Damen choked, and Laurent took advantage and pushed him under the water.

Damen came up with a gasp and shook himself, splattering Laurent. He was flushed pink and his eyes were crinkled at the corners. 

So this was how he looked when he let his guard down. Damen could get used to it. On the other hand, two could play games. He stood up, and reached over to a bench where there was a dish containing water scoops and soap. He picked up a scoop first, filled it, and tipped it without warning over Laurent's head.

"You might want to work on this particular skill set," said Laurent, though he didn't seem to mind so much when Damen picked up the soap and began rubbing it over him. He started with Laurent's shoulders, working his way across them, thorough. Then, one at a time, he nudged Laurent to hold an arm up, and soaped that, trailing slowest through the fine hair under each arm. 

"Stand," Damen ordered, and Laurent stood up.

Damen soaped his back, firm and efficient until he came to curves, and there he couldn't help lingering over the perfectly rounded muscle of his buttocks. Bending down, legs next, sweeping handfuls of water up as he curled his hands around lean calves.

"I hope you will be as thorough all over," said Laurent as Damen stood up and moved around to his front.

Damen let his hands answer, steady strokes across Laurent's chest. Unclothed, his discipline and training were obvious in his lean chest and taut abdomen. And his desire was obvious too. He shifted his legs apart slightly as Damen moved further down. Damen soaped his genitals as aloof as he was able, reaching between Laurent's legs in his quest to be thorough.

"All done," he said, and Laurent dipped under the water briefly to rinse off.

"I suppose you expect the same service," said Laurent.

Damen paused. "Only if you wish," he said.

"I wouldn't do it to order," Laurent retorted, taking the soap from Damen.

His touch was firm and confident. Laurent must have been serviced like this thousands of times, by the most skilled servants in the palace; it was natural he would know exactly what to do. Damen tipped his head back as Laurent reached his waist, sliding the soap down through the grooves of his hips, lightly brushing across the crease between his thigh and his stomach. Damen wanted Laurent's hands on his cock; he bit his tongue to stop himself begging for it.

Laurent leaned in, and whispered in Damen's ear. "Anticipation," he said, and put down the bar of soap. "There, I think you're clean enough." Then: "Aren't you going to rinse off?"

It was clear who had won that particular game. Damen rinsed off, then stepped out of the bath and picked up one of the towels folded neatly at the end of the bench. He began drying himself off, his back to Laurent. He could hear Laurent moving behind him, getting out the water too by the sound of it. Then a silence.

Damen turned around, wrapping the towel around his waist. Laurent was staring, something unhappy on his face. His arousal was less than it had been a moment ago.

He'd been staring at Damen's back.

"It's healed well. Paschal's salves are a wonder," said Damen lightly.

"I—"

Damen picked up a second towel and started drying Laurent. "It's in the past," he said, and eventually Laurent nodded.

Once dry, they headed back to the bedroom. It seemed chill by comparison, but the bed was warm, and so was Laurent. He was warm and eager, pushing Damen down into the mattress, hands on his chest. "This is... different. From how I imagined," he said, so quietly Damen thought the words were not for him.

"This is how it should be," said Damen, grinding up against Laurent. "Though normally there is less talking."

"I like talking," said Laurent. 

Damen laughed. "I had noticed. I would pretend that I want nothing more than to shut you up, but I find myself oddly ... enchanted by your persistent speech."

"You, on the other hand, I prefer when you are putting your mouth to other uses."

Damen wound his arms around Laurent. "I have a question," he said, thinking of Laurent listening to Auguste's stories, his hero brother. Of what his life might have been if Marlas had not happened. He thought of the bookish boy Laurent had claimed to be.

Laurent hesitated. "I can not promise to answer," he said.

Damen nodded. "If... if your life had been different," Damen started. His nature clamoured to speak the unadorned truth, but this was not the moment for that. He revised his question. "When you were a boy, growing up, what did you want to be?" Damen couldn't imagine Laurent as quiet and retiring—he was too bright and sharp for that, too quick-witted—but he could imagine him engrossed in his studies, impatient with anything and anyone who took him away from them.

A cloud flickered behind Laurent's eyes for a second, and then was gone. "You ask me this now?" he asked, shifting slightly on top of Damen as if to remind him of the reason for their relative positions.

"Your propensity for talking while fucking has clearly rubbed off on me," Damen retorted.

"Perhaps I should quiz you on Akielon strategies and strongholds while you are so talkative and loose-tongued."

"You still haven't answered my question." Damen nuzzled at Laurent's neck, kissed the warm skin below his ear. It was addictive, that delicate area below the fine hairs at his nape.

"A cartographer," said Laurent, a little breathless. "Maps always fascinated me, the way an entire land could be depicted on a scroll that could be rolled up and carried, rolled out and examined in minute detail. The way whorls of ink and small sketches are enough to picture hills and valleys I've never seen. Did you know that you can tell the type of rock underlying the soil just from the pattern of streams and wells on a map?"

Damen wanted to map his body. He wanted to know the plains and valleys, every taut muscle and groove. He wanted to know the fine pale skin and trails of golden hair. He wanted to know Laurent's body better than he knew his own. He wanted to know what was underneath the surface.

"Is your excitement purely due to the thought of maps?"

"Entirely," said Laurent.

"I can imagine you as a boy, pouring over your maps late into the night, pouting when your candles burned too low."

"I hope you're not imaging me as a boy now," said Laurent, rolling his hips and making it abundantly clear that he was no mere boy. He proved it thoroughly, and then, in the morning, proved it again.

Afterwards, lying side by side, sated and basking in the morning sunshine. Damen rested on one elbow and placed his hand on Laurent's bare chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of it. "You didn't leave."

"It is my room," Laurent pointed out, stretching out so that he took up far more than his share of the available space. He might well have been asserting ownership of the bed, but whatever the motive, the result was an exquisite view. The weariness of yesterday was gone, and he had shed his reticence with his clothes, his formality gone with the laces. His hair was dishevelled, there was a lingering sleep crease on his face, and he was smiling, his whole face full of contentment, his limbs loose and relaxed. 

Damen grew up in a dazzling city, famous for its commanding view over an ocean so blue that painters struggled to find a colour rich enough to depict it. He lived in a white marble palace full of riches and treasures and great art works. He was accustomed to being surrounded by beauty; his slaves were the best in the land, perfect in appearance and demeanour. But he had never seen such an alluring sight as this, as Laurent trusting and content.

Laurent didn't stir under his gaze. He drank it in, his smile deepening. 

"I thought you might have gotten up early anyway," said Damen, softening the words with a kiss.

"I wanted to watch you wake," said Laurent, and Damen thought it was one of the most honest things he'd said to him. He rewarded it with another kiss, one that lingered.

"I'd thought I might have to teach you that pleasure," Damen admitted, breaking off from the kiss only long enough to speak. He thought of other pleasures he could teach Laurent, pleasures he could learn from him. Pleasures they could discover together. 

Damen made himself a promise: when they had each regained their lands, when they had taken their rightful positions, they would trade lessons with one another.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw Henry V while I was writing this (I didn't actually do both simultaneously!), so I'm pretty sure Damen's speech to his people was influenced by Henry's speech before the Battle of Agincourt.


End file.
